


Fighting for the Holidays

by lorata



Series: We Must Be Killers: Tales from District 2 [40]
Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Careers (Hunger Games), Contests, District 2, Gen, Holidays, Humor, Minor Violence, Mistletoe, Original Character(s), friendly violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-11 23:23:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9041063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lorata/pseuds/lorata
Summary: “I know what it’s called, but I didn’t say mistletoe, I said mistleFOE,” Devon says.  “Misha and I came up with it, isn’t it great? Instead of kissing, when you’re underneath it you have to fight.”
The District 2 Victors' Village has a new holiday tradition this year, which makes for some very interesting shenanigans.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A HAPPY HOLIDAY TO YOU ALL, FRIENDS!
> 
> The idea of "like mistletoe, but instead of kissing you have to fight" is a popular joke that makes the rounds each year. This year I knew exactly what to do with it.

The Village gets a fresh coat of snow in the week before the Harvest Festival near the end of January, which has always made about as much sense to Brutus as the existence of organic bean sprout no-meat steak, but oh well. Ain’t nobody harvesting anything in December, except maybe out in the fringes of Eleven where they’ve set up heat lamps and greenhouses and all kinds of stuff to force another growing season, but it’s probably better that way. Wouldn’t be much of a festival during the real harvest time in fall if the people doing the actual work couldn’t afford to take the time off.

This week it was less of a light dusting and more of a heavy dump, knee-high drifts that make Brutus’ truck shudder and jerk the whole way up from the train station on the narrow, unplowed forest road. He’s finished the first half of the year-end sponsor run, with the second to come in in the week between the Harvest Festival and the new year. That means that, at least for a while, he gets to change out of skin-tight suits and wash off the makeup and the perfume named after his biceps and not think about fundraising for a few days.

Someone has at least cleared the snow away from the gate, there’s a mercy, and so Brutus doesn’t have to trudge all the way to the back of the Village with the snow fighting him the entire way. He can, mind, he did his exposure test in winter like the rest of them, and half the nights in his Arena froze over, but it’s been a long week and he’d rather not.

Brutus greets the gate staff as he passes, and tosses up a package of fancy Capitol cookies he nabbed from the train on the way home. Too much milk and sugar and all that for him, but they’re special holiday cookies with painted frosting to look like the mountains, and the staff grin and salute him when they open the tin. “Happy Harvest to you,” Brutus says, touching his fist to his chest.

“And to you,” they say back, still grinning.

Still grinning when he passes under the gate, in fact, and Brutus has just enough time to realize that’s fishy as hell before his combat senses kick in. He swerves just in time to avoid a head-on attack, but an arm still catches him around the waist and knocks him flat on his back. Brutus flops into the snow, the crust breaking under his weight, and he flounders for a minute before getting his bearings and flipping his opponent over onto his back.

He swears he hears the gate staff cracking up behind him, which makes no Games-damned sense, until Brutus’ eyes adjust to the loss of the gate spotlight and he makes out exactly who he’s pinning in the snow.

“Devon?” Brutus blinks at his boy, who’s grinning like a wildcat and wearing an absolutely hideous knitted sweater made by Enobaria. Any attempt at a lecture or cogent speech slides away in the confusion, and at last Brutus only manages a spluttered, “The fuck?”

“Your fault, boss,” Devon sing-songs, making no more damned sense than anything else in Brutus’ life today. “You walked under the mistlefoe.” 

“The — what?” Brutus gapes at him, but Devon at least looks sane and in his head, even if he’s spouting nonsense. Brutus sits back and lets him up. “At the gate, see?”

Brutus cranes his neck, and sure enough right in the middle of the gate overhang is a sprig of green with round, white berries. “It’s called mistletoe, kid,” Brutus scoffs, cuffing Devon upside the head. “Though I’ll take my thanks you didn’t give me the traditional greeting.” 

This time of year it’s impossible to avoid in the Capitol, as Brutus and any Victor still on the Panem’s Hottest Killers list is well aware. Pass under any doorway, light fixture, or hanging sconce and there will be a Capitolite with puckered lips and a sly expression waiting for him. 

The placement of the mistletoe ain’t subtle, of course, and Brutus could avoid all of them if he so chose without much effort, but that would be dumb. Instead he took circuitous routes that brought him beneath every damn sprig in the whole city, since the spirit of gift-giving at the Harvest Festival usually meant a card with a bank transaction number and a nice, shiny donation to the District 2 general sponsor fund.

“I know what it’s called, but I didn’t say mistletoe, I said mistle _foe_ ,” Devon says. He’s still in the snow, and Brutus sighs and stands up to give him room to move before everything soaks in through the backs of his jeans. “Misha and I came up with it, isn’t it great? Instead of kissing, when you’re underneath it you have to fight.”

Brutus opens his mouth, shuts it, then surprises himself by laughing. “I’m not going to call it that,” he warns Devon, clapping him on the shoulder. “But I’m in.” 

Devon beams, just in time for Brutus to shove him back under the gate within the radius of the stupid plant and then tackle him back to the ground.

“Oh good,” Lyme says when Brutus passes her on the path to his house, favouring his left leg. “You got the memo.” 

“How long has this been going on?” Brutus asks her. She has a bruise on her cheek, a split lip, and a shit-eating grin. 

“Two days,” Lyme says, and Brutus barks out another laugh. “Oh yeah, it’s been brutal. Watch yourself out there, it’s a jungle.” 

“I can handle myself,” Brutus shoots back. He’s not sure whether he’s relieved or disappointed that nobody thought to hang anything over the path between their houses, but either way Lyme heads off her way and Brutus makes it back to his place unscathed.

* * *

Two days of madness have taught Claudius to walk around with his head permanently craned in the upward position. The very first day he walked outside his own door of his own house into his own front yard, minding his own damn business, only for Misha to tackle him right into a snowbank. He’d come up fighting, not waiting for an explanation before diving at Misha’s waist, and the scrap ended in a draw with Misha spitting blood and Claudius resetting his nose for what’s probably the eleventh time in his life before Misha actually told him why.

As new traditions go, this one is pretty hilarious. Claudius likes fighting, and there’s something comforting about doing it with people who could all kill each other or die trying given the circumstances. Lyme caught him soon after Misha, sneaked into his house while he was practicing the piano and pinned a spring on the hallway light fixture, and they sparred right there on the floor. Afterward Lyme ruffled his hair and Claudius flopped across her lap until she snorted and shoved him off.

Still, sometimes a guy just wants to take a walk through the bare orchard and enjoy the crisp winter weather without worrying about broken bones, is that too much to ask? He’s made it there and is halfway through the grove of apple trees, stretching empty branches toward the white-clouded sky, when he spots Odin leaning against the trunk of the big tree in the centre.

“You’re kidding me.” Claudius grinds to a halt. “You too?” 

“My boy, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Odin says, his smile toothy and sharp. Claudius was almost twenty years too soon to be a twinkle in his father’s eye when Odin won his Games, and now he spends most of his days with his Victors in his greenhouse, or tending to his birds, but he won by killing the same as anyone. “I am simply enjoying a breath of fresh air this fine December afternoon. Why don’t you continue on with your stroll, lad, off you go.” 

“I don’t believe this,” Claudius complains, but he sure as the Arena isn’t going to run away. Instead he squints and looks around, trying to spot the mistletoe so he knows when to expect the attack, and finally finds it tied to a branch with red ribbon six feet above Odin’s head. “Did — you climb a _tree_?” he bursts out, flabbergasted. This is not the sort of past-time he’d imagine for the scion of Two’s Golden Decade.

Odin says nothing, only winks, and Claudius sighs and makes a run for it. Odin practically clotheslines him with an arm the size of a tree trunk, and Claudius twists as he falls to avoid landing flat on his back and knocking the air out of his lungs, which will be what Odin is aiming for. He hits his side, jarring his ribs and his elbow but it’s not a shock, and he flings himself to the side right before Odin’s elbow slams into the snow.

Claudius loses anyway, of course he does, Odin is twice his size and Claudius still can’t quite get around the idea of punching him in the face or going for the knees or any of the dirty tricks he might try with Misha. Still, Odin doesn’t grind it in, just lets out a belly laugh and reaches to help Claudius to his feet. “Well fought, boy,” he says, with a hearty pat on the back that nearly splats him on his face.

“Yeah, thanks,” Claudius says dryly. “I’m sure that was a real challenge for you.” 

Odin actually winks again, twice in one day. “Perhaps next year,” he says, and saunters back toward the Village, whistling.

* * *

“Oh dear child,” Ronan says, when he spots the mistletoe hanging above his porch. “Surely you wouldn’t attack an old man out for a walk with his cane and his dogs.” 

Artemisia bounces on her heels in front of him, grinning wide enough to split any door frame she tried passing through. She’s picked her spot well, on the rise of the lane with packed snow in front of her and a dip in front, so if she trips she’ll fall uphill and Ronan will have a smooth slide downward. 

Unfortunately for Artemisia, the forty or so years between them do provide a disparity, just not the one she thinks. “All right then, let’s get this over with,” he says, affecting a sigh, and gestures for the hounds to leave. They’re all too happy to trot back to the porch and flop down for another nap, and Ronan rolls his eyes fondly at them before turning back to Artemisia. “Shall we?”

Artemisia was brilliant in the Arena, one of the most skilled Victors that Two has ever had, and the strongest with the sword by far. She’s also cocky, arrogant, and extremely predictable, in that she’s guaranteed to do whatever makes the least amount of practical sense. Therefore, when Artemisia goes against her patented Arena strategy of strategic attack and rushes right at him, Ronan sees it coming.

Ronan hasn’t sparred in decades, but there are some tricks even someone his age can’t forget. His knees don’t bend the way they used to but he has enough spring in his step to keep his footing, and Ronan lashes out with his cane and catches Artemisia behind the knees. She stumbles — catches herself by jamming her boot into a divot in the snow, so she doesn’t fall completely ass-over, but she does drop to one knee with a heavy thud.

Ronan has his cane to her throat like a blade before Artemisia can right herself. “What say you, child?” he says, baring his teeth. “Are you satisfied?” 

Artemisia’s eyes flash in challenge, but she pushes herself up to her feet and takes a step backward before lowering into an elaborate bow. “Never,” she says with a wolf’s grin on the way up. 

“The Harvest season is young yet,” Ronan calls after her, and Artemisia makes a face and lopes away up the lane. 

* * *

“I enjoy a spirited match as much as anyone,” Adessa says, pouring herself another glass of blood-red wine and offering the bottle to Callista. “But this mess of creeping about, sneaking into people’s houses to leave poisonous plants in every nook and cranny of the Village, that’s just undignified.” 

Callista smiles and sips at her drink. She’s wearing what can only very charitably called a sweater, zipped low enough to reveal her ample and impressive cleavage, festooned with hideous glitter-threaded depictions of every one of her former alley-cat pets. At least this year she’s bothered with actual fabric; two years ago they’d had an unseasonably warm December, and Callista had decked herself out in a top little more than artful placement of wrapping paper and ribbon. 

Very little shocks Adessa these days, but _honestly_. 

“Well I think it’s charming,” Callista says, leaning back in her chair. “Do you know, I’ve fought almost every one of the babies? Half of them were terrified, of course, but no one backed down. I like to see things shaken up a little bit.” 

“You would,” Adessa says, mildly accusing, but Callista only chuckles. “You’d leap at the chance to traumatize the younger ones.”

“Like you don’t,” Callista retorts. “Half of them wet their beds because of you back in the day, and you adore it.” 

Adessa sniffs, but she doesn’t take another drink of her wine lest she look like she’s trying to stall for time. “I,” she says with utmost clarity of diction, “prefer more subtle methods.” 

This time Callista’s laugh is raw and snorting, nothing of her famous liquid charm. “Is that so. Have you looked up lately, by any chance?”

Now she does, out of sheer horror, but while Adessa gets an eyeful of bright light and aftershock of blinking away purple spots, the fixture above her head is mercifully bare of the offending parasitic plant. Having just coerced her elder into the equivalent of looking for the word ‘gullible’ painted on the ceiling, Callista bursts into a howl of triumphant laughter and claps her hands together, somehow managing not to spill a drop.

Adessa narrows her eyes to slits, and she marches into the kitchen, yanks open the spare drawer, and pulls out a plastic ball of green and white she’d taken down from her front porch yesterday. She barely stops herself from lobbing it at Callista’s head like an unrestrained teenager, and instead she stops beside Callsita’s chair and holds the mistletoe over her head.

“Have _you_ looked up?” Adessa snaps, and when Callista does she kicks the chair out from under her. 

Callista crashes to the floor, and Adessa will be calling someone in to clean the wine stain out from her carpet but it’s worth it to see the comical expression of shock on her friend’s normally carefully practiced face. She stands up snarling, not an inch of her usual refined poise in the curl of her lip and crook of her arms as braces them in front of her face.

Adessa brushes a bit of lint from the leg of her pantsuit. “ _Now_ I’m feeling festive,” she says, and drops into a fighting stance.

Callista’s laugh is ugly and pleased all at once, and it certainly is not dignified but Adessa can’t help but join her.

* * *

Lyme senses the attack before she sees it, and she drops the container of baked goods Emory had convinced her to take and readies herself in a combat crouch. Who even knows where the mistletoe is at this point, looking for it is a waste of time, and when Enobaria drops down from the pine tree and lands on Lyme’s shoulders, it hardly matters.

Enobaria is shorter and leaner than Lyme but that’s not an insubstantial weight to drop on someone. Lyme rolls with it, lets the jarring movement carry her forward, and she pitches Enobaria right over her head and onto the snow. Enobaria hits the ground rolling herself, over and back up onto her feet, and when she rights herself twin daggers glint in her hands.

“I didn’t think the game included weapons,” Lyme says casually, shifting her weight and bending her elbows, palms open.

“Why, you scared?” Enobaria tosses back.

They stare at each other across the forest path, and Lyme and Enobaria might be Victor-sisters from the same mentor but they have not and never will get along. Lyme buries her Arena-madness, keeps her rage tucked away for the times when it serves her best or accidentally bursts through a crack and bubbles hot to the surface; Enobaria wears hers like scars along her forearms, bright and jagged and never forgotten.

Lyme lost her first tribute to Enobaria’s Arena, and Nero was the one who sat across from her in mentor command when he died. Lyme will never forgive Enobaria for taking her mentor away from her, for taking the one person who’d ever put her first and forcing him to divide his time with this new, unhinged wild thing who spat and hissed and refused to see reason if it didn’t suit her. Enobaria, Nero’s second Victor always clawing her way up from second place, wished Lyme would grow up and leave her mentor behind and let her have him all to herself.

“You know what,” Lyme says, and she’s older, she’s saner, she has years of mentoring experience and children buried in the ground and living ones who look up to her, she should be mature and walk away, but _fuck that_. Tis the season. “Bring it on.” 

Enobaria grins, sharp as the flash of moonlight on a naked blade, and they fight. Lyme is big and fast but Enobaria is faster, and Lyme has more strength but Enobaria has knives and it’s not a pretty fight. Enobaria will refuse to call a draw and Lyme can’t find the fucks to care about doing it herself, and so Enobaria’s knife slashes across her ribs and Lyme catches her hand and squeezes until the finger bones snap. Enobaria lands a kick to the underside of Lyme’s knee that knocks her kneecap loose; Lyme strikes her hard enough across the face that Enobaria’s pointed teeth tear jagged lines across Lyme’s knuckles.

The fight ends with both of them panting and bleeding, Lyme in a half-crouch with one leg refusing to support her weight, Enobaria without her knives and one arm dangling useless at her side, blood dribbling from the corner of her mouth. “You know what,” Enobaria says, stepping back. “I’m going to see Nero and tell him what you did, and he’s going to take care of me.” 

“Yeah, you do that,” Lyme calls after her. The fight still sings in her blood, her heart pounding in a mad staccato. “And when he’s done putting you to bed, he’s going to come see me.”

Enobaria’s face twists in an ugly snarl, but instead of starting a fight that will only end in both of them bleeding out onto the snow in a picturesque tableau wasted on the lack of cameras, she pulls her injured arm to her chest and storms away.

“Happy fucking Harvest to you too,” Lyme says, and spits red onto the snow.

* * *

Petra tries not to let it bother her, really she does. It’s been almost a year and a half since her injury, and she can walk around the Village and even up the mountain trails as long as she has her cane, swim laps and the pool without tiring, even spar with Brutus on a good day, but she’s still not like the rest of them. One wrong kick or fall could re-break her hip or her knee and set her back to her post-Arena levels of mobility. 

It makes sense. No one wants to be responsible for that kind of injury, Petra gets it. But still, as the solstice approaches and Harvest season is in full gear, as the Village rings with the sounds of impromptu sparring matches from gate to trails, Petra can only think about how much she wishes she could participate.

Brutus does, of course, hiding a sprig of mistletoe in the living room lamp and nudging her to look at it before picking her up and gently throwing her over his shoulder. Devon also hides some mistletoe in a batch of Emory’s cookies, and when Petra throws it at his head he grins and tackles her — again, gently, always gently — to the floor. 

Still, there are times when Petra is out through the Village and she sees it, someone’s gaze flick up above their heads, before they look away and continue on without acknowledgment. Petra never looks, convinces herself that as long as she doesn’t get confirmation that it could be her imagination, but each time it rankles, the bitter poison spreading slowly through her chest.

One afternoon she’s headed back from the pool, hair still damp and turning crispy in the freezing air, when she bumps into Nero on his way in to use the weights. “Hey Petra,” he says, friendly as always, and Petra gives him a polite nod. 

She doesn’t interact with Nero much, he and his whole line of Victors are a little too irreverent, too unconcerned with district loyalty for Petra to spend much time with them in any comfort, but she has no problem with Nero himself. He’s a good mentor and brings in more sponsor money than half the other Victors combined, and he’s never patronized Petra or made her feel weak even though he’s the only Two bigger than Brutus.

But then it happens. Nero glances up, and Petra tells herself not to, wills herself to stare past him at the snowy Village beyond, but it’s too late. Up, up, up her gaze turns, up to the stupid spray of mistletoe dangling from the lamp at the edge of the basketball court.

“Mentor _fucker_!” Petra spits out, and slams her cane down hard enough that it cracks the thin layer of ice beneath her feet. “I hate this!”

“Aw, Petra—“ Nero says, and his youngest Victor is Enobaria which means he’s well versed in all kinds of ways to placate former killers out of having temper tantrums but Petra can’t bear to hear it, not today. 

“Hey,” calls out a voice from across the court, and Emory jogs over, wearing cleated sneakers and a sweater over her workout gear despite the subzero temperature. “Is that a challenge?”

Nero frowns. “Yeah, but —“ 

Emory comes to a stop in front of them, breath puffing white in front of her. She’s Petra’s oldest Victor-sibling, Brutus’ first, and Petra might have scoffed in private at her mediocre Games showing when she was a stupid, arrogant teenager but now she admires Emory more than anyone but their mentor himself. “Petra, will you accept a champion?” Emory asks, putting on a lilting accent and sweeping her arm out in a bow. “I would be happy to fight on your behalf.” 

The urge to fight still burns under Petra’s skin like the time the Centre injected her with capsaicin to test her pain tolerance, but Nero’s eyebrows have crept up his head and Emory smiles at her, warm and supporting, and the itch actually fades. “Yes, of course,” Petra says, and she holds out her cane and touches Emory on one shoulder, then the other. “I would be honoured to accept you as my champion.” 

“Ha,” Nero says, grinning. His neck is the size of Emory’s bicep but she doesn’t back down, only cracks her neck from side to side and stretches out her arms in a theatrical show of preparation. “You’re on then,” he says, and tips and invisible hat to Petra. “This is for you, girl.” 

“For you, my lady,” Emory says to Petra, blowing her an invisible kiss, and the warmth in Petra’s chest expands until she thinks she’ll burst.

“On three,” Petra calls out, since while she’s here she may as well adjudicate, and the two of them fall into matching ready stances.

* * *

The mistletoe festivities end when a representative from Victor Affairs delivers an official statement from the Village’s official doctor, refusing to treat any more physical injuries until the end of the year. She’d attached the butcher’s bill to the letter, a list of all the bones set, all the limbs splinted, every gash stitched and socket relocated, and threatened to come down and personally sedate all of them until the end of the holidays if the madness did not stop.

Ronan reads the letter aloud at the town hall meeting, looking out at the sea of bruised cheeks, swollen eyes and bent noses. “I think that concludes our newest solstice tradition,” he says. “I’d say being banned by a medical professional makes this year’s Harvest Festival a rounding success. Let’s hear it for our enterprising holiday entrepreneurs!”

Misha and Devon both stand and bow — both of them sporting twin black eyes, Devon a butterfly bandage on one cheek — as the others applaud. Ronan waves them back to their seats, then raises his hand to gather everyone’s attention. “I propose a corollary tradition — finding every last piece of mistletoe, real or plastic or embroidered or what have you, and bringing them to the square for a celebratory bonfire. All those in favour?”

The Village votes unanimous, and Ronan announces the meeting adjourned. “I bet I find more than you,” Misha says to Devon as they begin to file out of the hall.

“I bet you don’t!” Devon shoots back.

“Whoever finds the fewest bits of mistletoe eats my laundry!” Misha shouts to the hall at large, then kisses Devon, trips him, and weaves past the others to tear out into the snow. Devon swears, picks himself up, and races after her.

“That is not —“ Ronan starts, but then as one after another Victor grins in challenge, he sighs and drops his hand. “All right, fine, the Victor with the most mistletoe at the end of the night is the ultimate winner of the Harvest Festival,” he says. “Just no bodily harm if you can help it, please.” 

“Me and my kids against yours,” Brutus challenges Lyme, who throws up a vulgar gesture with two fingers in response, and they rush out with the others.

Ronan takes the long way back to his house, moving slowly and sedately across the snow-laden paths, listening to the chaos as his children tear through the Village. He lowers himself down onto his front stoop, joints creaking, and reaches over to pet his hounds when they push through the dog door and flop down next to him.

“Happy Harvest,” Ronan says to his dogs, to the Village, to his Victors as they race through the trees like children, and to the giant pile of mistletoe beneath his porch that he gathered before the meeting and stuffed into a large burlap sack. “Snow bless us, every one.”


End file.
